The Henna Artist(66)
Past the shacks stood dignified bungalows, crumbling from age and neglect. Here, women were slightly older, kohl-eyed, hardened. They charged twenty to thirty rupees a night. As I passed, they stared—at my clothing, my hair, my sandals—and turned away. Another do-gooder sent to save them or their children from a fallen life.
Hardly, I was thinking, when I saw a young girl, heavily made up, in front of a red bungalow. Her cheap orange sari couldn’t hide her swollen belly. As I came closer, she turned into a doorway. Was it—it couldn’t be—Lala’s niece? I was seeing things. But it made me wonder what had happened to the two servants Parvati had dismissed.
Soon enough, I came to the far end of the district, to the estates of wealthy courtesans—many of them Muslim. Like my old friends Hazi and Nasreen, these women were trained in the ancient arts of music, poetry and dance. They catered only to nawabs, royals and successful businessmen. They never opened their houses until evening and never to the public. A single night with them could cost a thousand rupees. They wouldn’t have needed someone like Hari to help them; they could afford doctors, specialists. They could also afford to buy my hair oils, skin-lightening creams and, of course, my herb sachets—which Malik delivered monthly.
I kept walking. Half an hour later, I came upon the European District, so-called because the French, Germans and Scandinavians lived here alongside well-to-do Indians. If not at his office or the Jaipur Club, Samir could be found here. Perhaps this had been my unwitting destination all along.
I looked for the trim, white bungalow. It was too small a property to employ a gatekeeper. I let myself into a tiny courtyard bordered by magenta roses. Their heady scent was strongest at this time of the evening.
The steps leading to the veranda were wide and graceful. When I knocked, I heard one of the upstairs shutters open. I stepped back and looked up. A handsome young woman in a georgette sari opened the second-floor window. I smiled and brought my hands together in greeting.
She hesitated. “I’ll come down.”
Soon enough, she was at the door: Samir’s mistress, Geeta.
All of Samir’s women had the same things in common. They were widows of a certain age, neatly coiffed, trim. Women who powdered their faces.
Samir would have thought a garden with only a single variety of flower dull, and his women differed in height, breast size, the shape of their noses, the curve of their lips. Geeta, a widow in her early thirties, was blessed with eyes as large as areca nuts. Her small nose and delicate mouth, pretty but unexceptional, drew even more attention to her eyes. She was holding a book in one hand.
I said, “I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour.”
She looked beyond me to the street, glancing in both directions. “Come in,” she said, opening the door wider to let me in.
“I need to speak to Samir Sahib,” I told her.
“Leave it with me.”
She thought I’d brought sachets.
“I haven’t come for that.” I smiled. “I need to talk to him.”
There was a pause. “He’s not here.”
“Is he expected?”
Another pause. “Later.”
“May I wait?”
She set the book on a table in the entryway. Did I detect a sigh? “Of course. Please.” She indicated the drawing room.
The moment I stepped into the room, I felt as if I might faint. Blood rushed to my head. My legs ached. I leaned against the doorframe to steady myself.
Geeta grabbed my arm. “Hai Ram!” She looked worried. “Are you quite all right?”
I realized I hadn’t eaten all day and that I had fainted at Kanta’s house. I touched the bump on my forehead. “Perhaps I will take some juice. Nimbu pani, if you have it.” I eased myself into a French bergère chair.
“Of course.”
I smiled my thanks, and rested my head against the back of the armchair.
On the fireplace mantel, a clock ticked, then trilled, delicately. It was decorated in an emerald green enamel, and it was much finer than the heavy English clocks many of my ladies favored.
“It’s French,” said Geeta, setting a glass of sugared limewater on the table next to me. “My late husband was a Francophile. The English were never good enough for Jitesh. In the end, he was proved right.” She smiled, revealing charming dimples, and I could see why Samir was drawn to her. She took a seat on the sofa.
I took one sip of my drink, then gulped down the rest; I hadn’t realized I was so thirsty.
“Another?” She stood, but I shook my head.
“Thank you, no. I’m feeling a little... If it’s not too much...perhaps I could lie down, Ji?”
“Are you ill?” She took the glass from my hand. “I can send for someone if you wish.”
“Nahee-nahee. I work too much...and forget to eat.”
I could see she wasn’t happy about it, but she led me upstairs, into a room that must have been guest quarters. There were no photos in it, no paintings or books. The walls were painted a pale yellow. The furnishings, a narrow bed with an ornate headboard and a dressing table, were French Empire. I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. Unlike the hard jute of my cot, the feathered mattress gave way, and I slept.
* * *
I was awakened by a sharp click. I opened my eyes to see Samir closing the door. He sat next to me on the bed and placed a hand on my arm. His brows were drawn. “What’s happened? Are you hurt?”